


People Will.

by Dale Pike (yesiamTHATdalepike)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Early Days, M/M, True Love, Whatever remains however impossible.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-01
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:54:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7354273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yesiamTHATdalepike/pseuds/Dale%20Pike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A small story in which Sherlock is discouraged, John is dangerous and Sally Donovan listens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	People Will.

**Author's Note:**

> I generally don't like trigger warnings. I think the world benefits from people talking, especially about the things that are hard to talk about. I have personally - greatly - benefitted from viewing a show that didn't warn me how I was going to feel about it.
> 
> Having said that. This story is a trigger.
> 
> It's why I wrote it.

Now. 

“That was _by far_ ,” the low voice is strained, “the most ridiculous, reckless... _dangerous_... thing I have _ever_ seen you do.”

Sergeant Donovan pauses, just before coming around the corner of the nearly deserted hallway, sensing that she’s about to interrupt an exchange that will not be warmly-receptive to disruptions. She stalls, out of the sight of the two participants, unsure of what to do. 

“I can see how you would think so at this moment,” says the other man, in a slow, cautious, mollifying tone, “but perhaps you need to imagine how you’ll feel once you’ve had a chance to consider the bigger picture.” 

“Bigger picture?! Have you completely lost your mind? There are consequences to your thoughtless actions, you know!” 

“Try to calm down. You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment.” 

Donovan’s almost certain she has the voices mixed up, but it’s hard to tell by the hushed tones. She risks a wary peek around the corner. No, her ears hadn’t lied. They have reversed their usual roles, it seems. 

“I am calm. I’m extremely calm,” Sherlock’s thunder cracks the whisper. “And it’s _your_ judgment that is in question here...” 

Sally winces involuntarily, realizing she’s never seen the consulting detective so livid, as she furtively witnesses his further ranting. She would almost be concerned for his companion’s safety, but the other man, though smaller in stature, is holding to a rigid military-like column that is a fixed point for the orbit of Sherlock’s fevered pacing and gesticulating. He waits patiently, as if knowing that the other’s shouting in near-mute can only last so long until his voice gives out. 

“...talk!   About whatever and _however_ they see fit to. And there is nothing—absolutely _NOTHING—“_ he runs a hand through wild curls—“we can do to control what the more deranged members of that audience will do with that information, is there, _John?!_ ” And then, Sherlock runs out of air, the husk of his voice cracking on his friend’s name. They stand, gathering breath—though one much more than the other—while they collect their thoughts. 

The constable tries to decide whether she should continue her errand, or leave them for a moment. _I’ll handle this lot_ , Lestrade had whispered to her, scowling at the throng of reporters vying for attention. _Go find them and help them out the back door, okay?_ And Donovan would do so, except she can’t bring herself to step into the middle of this... whatever the hell _this_ is... and she is also afraid to step away at this juncture; her shoes leaving a tell-tale echo on the linoleum. They have obviously not noticed her approach, but her departure may be a different story; they are quieter now and Sherlock is closer to the corner, nearly facing her. She carefully backs off, leaving them only slightly within her sight, wishing Anderson had been around to do this instead. The newly-reinstated forensics officer had often speculated on these eventual circumstances of the Amateur Detectives Club... though, until today, Sally had failed to agree with him. 

John holds up a hand gently. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I should have realized sooner.” 

Sherlock finds the energy to scoff louder than they are talking, and whips away from his friend, leaning heavily through his remaining good arm on a nearby table. 

The doctor continues, “But it’s going to be alright. Really.” 

“Did you ever think, for a moment, to consider _Abby_?” His companion speaks slower now, and—if Donovan didn’t know better—with a slightly nasal quality. 

John’s demeanor takes on a sharp edge. “Of course I—“ 

“And Mary?” His voice is not quite as broken here, belying a lesser investment of sentiment, but the intensity-laced-with-something-else remains. “It’s not just about us, is it?” 

“You’re right,” John agrees...

 

...

  

7 Minutes Ago. 

Sherlock drums his fingers on the edge of the podium, keeping his eyes carefully restricted to the front row of journalists so he doesn’t risk a glance to the back of the room. He drones through his update on the Culverton Smith case, hoping that he doesn’t sound like a smart-arse... given who is in attendance today, after all... and knowing that he’s probably failing spectacularly. 

And then the part he hates the most. “So, then. If there’s no further questions...” 

A horde of voices, of course. But one stands out among the rest. 

“...about another case, Mr Holmes?!” 

His gaze snaps to her; he remembers this one from other delightful Q & As. _Somebody_ Pike... Diana? Dalia? Perhaps it isn’t even ‘D’... this is just a mnemonic his hard-drive has created because this woman, Sherlock recalls, works for the _Daily Mail_. He scowls at her before realizing this is a grievous error in judgment; they have now shared a glance, and this is as good as an invitation for her to continue. 

“Just wondering if you’d care to comment on the incident of June 12th?” 

He wonders what the hell she’s talking about... why the mention of the day oddly makes his pulse rise... and why the hell the _Daily Mail_ is here anyway... for that matter, the room is rather more packed than usual, isn’t it?... and scans through his hard-drive for what he knows about this woman. Cleverer than that insipid bint, Riley, but still a transmitter and receiver of London gossip for the garbage papers. And frankly, a shit-disturber. Although Lestrade needn’t look so suddenly concerned; these types never have anything important to say or much real knowledge of police matters. Sherlock sighs and marvels at the way he can remember all this, but can’t for the life of him conjure to mind the actual date. Can’t even conjure the month. He hasn’t been sleeping well lately. Surely it’s July already?   “Sorry, I don’t know—“ 

She qualifies, “Your encounter with the late Mr George Anson.” 

She says it almost off-handedly, but Sherlock abruptly feels as if he’s been hit by a bus. His tapping fingers freeze, gripping the edge of the wood as he uses it to steady himself. “How did you—?” 

“Several witnesses—“ she begins. 

The D.I. is suddenly as close to Sherlock’s immobilized elbow as possible without bumping his consulting detective’s shoulder-sling. “Let me,” he mutters quietly, indicating the microphone. 

But Sherlock feels that if he lets go of the podium, he’ll fall. A sharp pain spreads uncannily in his lower belly. “That case... remains under investigation,” he stammers, the autopilot of his brain finding the words that he knows Lestrade would say. “A situation... arose and was dealt with and that’s... all we’re at liberty to say at the moment.” He stares at Pike with a sinking feeling. This woman is aware that she’s hit on something and obviously hungry for a story. She is not going to let the matter drop so easily. 

She opens her mouth to say more, while their eyes have remained locked. _Please don’t,_ Sherlock thinks anxiously in her direction, but despairing that his showing of this vulnerability will be completely counter-effective, in doing nothing but confirming for her that she’s struck a nerve. She’s closer to him than most of the rest. Surely she can see what Sherlock loathes being unable to prevent; any colour he may have had must be drained from his face. 

Pike's eyes scan him and turn suddenly apologetic. She shuts her mouth. 

Unfortunately, someone else opens his. 

“Mr Holmes! Jim Damery, _London Times._ Were you aware of Mr Anson’s _—“_

“We’re _not_ discussing that case,” Lestrade nearly yells, but is drowned out by the news reporter’s louder, well-practiced barrage. 

“—previous offenses, as well as the type of rhetoric he promoted on his personal website...?” 

_No, I wasn’t. But I can probably guess._ Sherlock stares at the speaker now; the large, clean-shaven columnist in meticulous dress. He’s acquainted with Damery as well; his name is a household word in respected journalistic circles. Generally known for both a frankness and a knack for handling delicate matters, the honest-faced Irishman continues on with his speculation of what kind of case this is, while his colleagues pay attention admirimingly. With what he obviously personally feels to be a masterful degree of tack, Jim continues to dominate the room with questions-that-are-not-questions; his next editorial piece of social justice championship forming palpably in the air above his head. He smiles genuinely at Sherlock, as if he’s doing him a favour. 

Sherlock would punch him in the mouth if he had the strength to. _Self-important fool,_ he thinks. 

And, just when the high-functioning sociopath feels as if the eddying sink-hole beneath his sternum can’t hollow him out any further, Damery presents his conclusion: “...with Dr Watson?” 

_Bloody hell._  

By the time Sherlock reminds himself to avoid the overlooked figure at the back of the room, it’s too late: he’s gazing at him desolately, wishing he could go back in time and opt out of this press conference. “That’s... completely irrelevant...” he can’t even keep track of the dull response that falls numbly from his mouth. He’s keenly aware of the labels for their case—though they have not yet even figured out between themselves what to call things—as he hears the faint suggestions whispered throughout the crowd.   He’s keenly aware that John’s heard them too, and that the expression on the doctor’s face is a mixture of mortification and cold rage, as he turns on his heel and exits the door. 

The words swirl around his throbbing head and, even though Sherlock knows that they are not spoken with the same intention, a few of them mirror the echoes in his nightmares. He leans forward on the podium and feels the room swim...

 

...

 

7 Days Ago. 

Words. There are words now. 

Sherlock’s head throbs and he notes, as he struggles toward wakefulness, that the locus of the throbbing is just beneath the hot and sticky mess of his temple that is pressed against a hard surface. Pain. There is pain. And words. The world before his blurry gaze swims nauseatingly. 

“Disgusting _filth,”_ the voice spits in his ear, tracing something with a very sharp edge across Sherlock’s neck. “Degenerates, the lot of you.” 

The words go on, and so does the pain. At some moments, it’s hard to tell the one from the other. 

“...watching you. And I have to say; I’ve been looking forward to wiping that clever smile off your face...” 

_Who are you?_ Sherlock tries to assess the surroundings, his bonds and anything about his captor that may prove useful. _Nearly underground; minimal daylight at steep angles. Empty, abandoned. Can’t be far from where I dropped the phone. Can’t move; left shoulder might be dislocated. And you... I’ve crossed you, I must have; there are few people who hate me THIS much..._ But as the unfamiliar voice, attached to the rough form that violently shoves him, kicks him and needles him with the knife, drones on in something that is not-quite-poetry interspersed with vehement reprimand... it dawns on him. He has no idea where he is. He has no idea who has brought him here. 

But he now has some idea why. 

“...flaunting it, even! Where children play, for crying out loud! You freaks call it _pride_? Let me teach you what is written about pride...” 

_One. Only one. If I can just get loose..._ But his hands and feet must be taped severely; he can’t move at all; his joints excruciatingly rigid in their trappings. Sherlock resorts to using the only part of him that’s free. “I’ve read the... text you’re quoting,” he replies, through broken breath and broken lips, “I don’t think you’re... interpreting it quite as... intended.” 

“Shut it.” The blade is again at his throat. “You _lying tos—_ ” 

“Please. You don’t want... to do this.” Sherlock decides it’s well within his best interests to swallow the afore-mentioned pride for the moment and appeal to whatever nature might be related to some distant cousin of compassion. Any previous notions of how he’d ever thought he might handle this type of situation are immediately jettisoned. He suddenly, desperately, wants nothing more than to live; at least long enough to ensure that he is this man’s last victim. But longer, of course, if possible. “This will make you... something that I know you don’t... want to be...” 

“Do you know what sickens me the most?” The foul breath and tirade caresses his ear from behind. “What the two of you probably do to that innocent girl—“ 

_Not him not her don’t you dare—_ With a furious cry, Sherlock thrashes against the form and the bonds; limbs straining with a tearing tension. His shoulder screams. He knows he shouldn’t; there is no way that his comments will be rewarded with anything other than more pain, but he can’t help the gasping retort that lurches from his lungs; “Given... the _reason_... that you hate us... that makes even _less_ sense than if we were—“ 

The mass of muscle leaves his back, but in short order, there is a stunning blow and a new locus of throbbing and a complete inability to see, move, _think..._

Feeling as if he’s lost moments, he suddenly realizes that he’s been turned over, that he’s facing the assailant he can barely make out in the blurry darkness. The entire world is a muddle of terrifying sensations but none so much as the one that pointedly stands out; the tip of the blade that is pressed very, very low on his belly and angling downwards. He considers threatening his attacker and tries to launch into the laundry list of retribution that his very, very powerful brother could extract. He considers begging and tries to launch into the promise of conscious-assuaging wealth and privilege that his very, very influential brother could provide. He briefly considers praying and, instead, attempts to scream at the top of his lungs. But all are futile, Sherlock knows. His very powerful and influential brother is six months dead of a heart condition and if there are any beings in the universe more omnipotent than Mycroft Holmes, most of the not-quite-poetry of human history has lead him, erroneously or not, to believe that they don’t answer the prayers of people like Sherlock. 

All that, and there’s a knee on his chest and he chokes on his own blood. 

He’s going to die here. Hidden and alone in a cold, dirty cellar. It’s surreal and nonsensical; he’d been walking in a sunlit street just minutes ago and now, he’s _here;_ somewhere... nowhere... and about to die. After every ridiculous, reckless, _dangerous_ thing he’s ever done, Sherlock knows he’s about die; here, now. 

Because he had gone to a park yesterday and dared to do something that shouldn’t be dangerous at all, today he’s definitely about to die. 

Oh. And it’s going to hurt a hell of a lot first. 

_There must be something in your mind palace to calm you down._

_Find it..._

  

7 Years Ago. 

“...which is fine, by the way.” 

“I know it’s fine.” Sherlock snaps it quickly, almost cutting off the army doctor’s words, looking at intently him for a moment before turning his gaze back to the street beyond the window. 

But then he realizes that this isn’t true. 

He hadn’t known. He had _thought_ that it was fine. Thought this, in the same way that he’d thought that phenolphthalein detects the presence of hemoglobin and that the settling rate of cigar ash is almost two-thirds that of cigarettes and that his brother—arrogant prat though he was—was not someone to be trifled with. He had thought that he’d _known_ it, as he knows many other things... until this moment, when he’d suddenly realized that there is a subtle difference between thinking and knowing; that the one is based in intellect and the other intuition and, in this case, the two are nothing alike. 

Sherlock had intellectually validated this facet of human interaction— _of course it’s fine, why on earth wouldn’t it be?_ —while completely over-looking it as a concept that could be applied to himself. Human interaction, in general, was really not his area, after all. Deep-down, there always been an inclination to believe that this fact was due to something that was _not-_ fine about him. But surely, he muses now, these two matters must be entirely unrelated. Must have been. 

So his response hadn’t been quite true. But now it is. A short blond man with ridiculous jumpers and a cautious mouth tentatively licks his lips as his eyes flicker over him and suddenly Sherlock doesn’t just think it; he _knows_. 

It’s fine. Of course it is.

And so is he. 

He immediately digresses with some utter bollocks about _work_ and then proceeds to spend the next four years figuring out what _fine_ means. Intellectually, as well as intuitively. 

But in that moment, the ridiculously-jumpered man had just smiled and said, “Good.” 

And something about _like me._  

And, even though it’s something he says almost as infrequently as he says _sorry_ , Sherlock responds with _thank you._  

It feels right. 

If he could choose a moment to die in, Sherlock supposes, this one is as good as any.

 

...

  

7 Days Ago. 

John’s heart hammers at the sight as he bursts through the door: Sherlock beaten and trussed and an obviously unhinged man bending over him with a knife. He levels his right hand into his left and doesn’t have time to second-guess his aim before the assailant is nothing more than an inert lump on the floor and a bloodstain on Sherlock’s pale skin. 

“Are you alright?” John asks, nearly leaping the stairs, running to his side, picking up the offending utensil from beside the corpse’s hand and cutting Sherlock’s bonds. 

“Fine,” Sherlock gasps, scrambling to his feet and lurching several steps away from him before swaying off-balance, legs buckling, and leaning on the wall. 

John reaches out. “What on _earth_ —?!” 

His friend waves him off, rubbing his mouth and muttering _fine, I’m fine_ through bloody teeth. 

There is the distant sound of sirens, door slams and pounding feet. 

“You called the police,” Sherlock mumbles, through the mess of his face. 

“Of course I called the police!” 

“You found my phone.” 

“I found your phone.” John wonders for a moment if they’re both going to need shock blankets. “ _Sherlock..._ ” 

He looks pleadingly at John. “Shoulder,” he pants, dropping to his knees and twisting his left side toward the doctor’s grasp. 

_There’s EMS coming,_ John starts to say, then realizes that it will be at least ten minutes before the cops let them move on from the sweep and another ten before the paramedics get through a primary scan of Sherlock’s injuries and decide to do something about this non-life-threatening but painful state. “I don’t want to rush it; damage your cartilage,” he warns, but takes the arm in his hands anyway. 

There are footsteps on the floor above. “Enough assessing,” Sherlock hisses. “ _Do it!”_  

A clunk and muffled groan and the patient sags, sighing relief. The cellar stairs are suddenly awash with boots, lights, guns. John puts his hands over his head and rides it out; the shouting, the waiting. The day-dream of stepping back out into the light. The questioning; oscillating between investigative and medical. He keeps Sherlock in his periphery at all times, half-listening to the flat-sounding drone of his friend’s voice. 

_Yes. No, nothing more. I don’t know. Probably. Yes, that sounds right._

_Enemies, right._

_You’re not wrong about that._  

It seems like an age before they are able to speak only to each other again. 

“Where’s Abby?” Sherlock murmurs. 

“With Mary. Remember? It’s her week.” 

And although John frankly doesn’t want to explain today’s events to his ex-wife just yet, Sherlock makes him phone. Five minutes later, after summarizing as sweetly and succinctly as possible—and knowing she doesn’t buy it for a second—he hangs up; getting back to the matter at hand. “See, what did I tell you? Why are you worried anyway?” 

“I’m not. Just... thinking ahead,” the high-functioning sociopath mutters, dabbing his swollen lip with his right thumb. 

“Well, at least we don’t have to worry about _that_ fella,” John nods toward the sheet-covered lump. Former case?” he asks, still standing next to the ambulance, arms at his sides, feeling ridiculous. Frankly, he couldn’t care any less, but he knows Sherlock isn’t going to engage in conversation about how frightened he was, or how very relieved he’s alive. He clenches his fists, thrusting them in his pockets. “I didn’t recognize him.” 

“You didn’t know him. Though that would be sort of hard to tell anyway. What with most of his face blown off.” The tone would be admiring, John thinks, if it weren’t still a touch flat. Sherlock turns to him, the orange of his blanket making his face seem even greener. “Are you...?” 

“Lestrade’s sorting it out. Self-defense; should be straight-forward. I’ll probably be taken in for a bit, but for the moment... well.” John grins, flicking his own covering. “You know. Shock.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Though I wish we had your brother’s influence...” 

Sherlock silently absorbs himself in cleaning his fingernails and John suppresses the rest of the joke, reminding himself that this is among the myriad of topics they don’t discuss yet. _Here there be dragons._  

He returns to something they can agree upon. “Arsehole.” 

His friend nods numbly, though, John realizes belatedly that, in Sherlock’s mind, this term can probably apply to either. He qualifies; “So, former case? He obviously had some axe to grind with you.” 

Sherlock stares at him. No, past him.  He answers in almost slow-motion. “Yes. Former case.” 

“Sorry I cut it so close. I went the wrong way at first.”   

“We’ve had worse.” Dull, flat. Eyes staring at nothing. 

“Should we expect more, or did he act alone?” John steps in closer, loathing this ludicrous distance, this need to keep hands in pockets; though whose need it is, he still isn’t sure. He removes them now, but doesn’t risk an embrace, though every nerve in his arms is screaming for it. But he knows that Sherlock is more shaken by this incident than usual by the way that his friend actually lets him reach up with a cloth to wipe the blood from his brow. 

The myriad of topics they don’t discuss. 

“Well?” 

“Hmm?” 

John sighs, gesturing for the attendant that is packing up supplies nearby. “You _are_ in shock, Sherlock. I think we’d best get on to the hospital.” 

“I’m fine,” the monotonous response comes, even as John and the attendant coax him onto the stretcher. “I’m not in shock.” 

The doctor sits beside him. “Like hell.” 

Sherlock looks up at him gravely. “Abby?” he murmurs. 

“What?” 

His partner squeezes his hand keenly. “Where’s Abby?”

...

  

7 Minutes Ago.

John opens the door quietly and slips into the back of the press room. The gaggle doesn’t notice him, as they rarely do. Why should they? John knows that Sherlock does of course, but the younger man makes no acknowledgment of his presence, keeping his eyes down at the front row of journalists and his voice even. 

He hadn’t planned on coming today. Sherlock, quickly snapping out of his vulnerable state, has gone out of his way all week to make it plain that he doesn’t require or desire John’s presence. Although John’s no stranger to these occasional periods, he admits that the sore spot is definitely more tender since the recent redefinition of their relationship. 

Culminating this morning with the worst yet. 

_You don’t actually have to live at Baker St, you know. Wouldn’t you say that the flat’s getting a bit crowded?_  

To cap it off, Mary had arrived, for their weekly trade-off, to witness the end of the heated exchange and Sherlock stalking off in a snit. John had sighed. Mary has mainly been quite good about the entire arrangement—indeed, she claimed knowing before both of them anyway—but still doesn’t pass up an opportunity to take an occasional piss at their expense. 

But today, she had looked at John with concern. “Is everything alright?” 

“Oh, you know. Still out-of-sorts about that thug getting the best of him last week.” John had made vague waving gesture and tried to joke. “Reasserting his manhood, or something.” 

She hadn’t laughed. Instead, she had shifted the red-headed toddler on her shoulder, asleep from the car-ride. “Why don’t I keep her bit longer this time? Come back in a few days? You can go with him...” 

John had shaken his head. “He’s fine.” 

And then she had given him the look. The one, it seems, John often gets from every single person in his life, including his two-year-old... hilarious though it is in a blend of her father's nose and her mother's chin... but Mary still does it best. The fond, bemused, _you’re-a-complete-idiot_ look. “No, he isn’t.” 

And so, John has run along, like some half-wit, after him. As usual. 

When he gets there, he remembers that it’s time for the routine press release on the Smith case that Lestrade had mentioned yesterday. It’s been highly publicized and the D.I. claims he’s in over his depth on this one. It’s also likely that he’s just intentionally giving the self-proclaimed sociopath something to do, in an effort to illustrate that _life goes on_ in a way similar to how he carefully ignores Sherlock’s stitched brow and sling-wrapped shoulder. 

_Y’know. Show him that, as far as I’m concerned: all is normal._

_All IS normal,_ John had retorted. _That cracked tooth isn’t keeping him from being an enormous git._  

As John slips into the darkened back of the room, Sherlock is droning on quite normally at the front. “...so prolific as to become like a solid bed of oysters... but I see that I’m wandering. Since that’s all obviously well-above the comprehension of the lot of you, I’ll just skip to the conclusion...” 

John can’t help it; he chuckles. He knows that most people don’t see what’s beneath that great brain. As he recalls what he knows is there, he gradually tunes out, letting his gaze unfocus on the glinting highlights in his partner’s hair and lets his mind wander. _You daft ninny,_ he thinks affectionately, day-dreaming about ways that he might get their domestic environment back-on-track in the next two child-free days. 

“...George Anson,” a reporter is saying. 

At the name of the man he’s recently killed, the retired army captain tunes back in with a sharp snap. _Uh oh. Where do they get their information, anyway?_  

The pause while Sherlock switches gears is slightly longer than usual. Then he mutters something rapidly, false-starting several times, in an attempt to deflect the question. Lestrade steps closer to him. And mercifully, the journalist drops the bone. 

But a second one picks it up. And the crowd’s murmur begins to rise, pens scratching, phones and tablets bipping and ticking. _Hate-crime_ is such a deliciously triggering term, it seems. 

_What?!_ John bristles. _Honestly, why do these bastards have to sensationalize everything?_ He folds his arms and waits for Sherlock to put the bothersome twit precisely in his place.

But at the front of the room, Sherlock stutters again and comes to a stop in his efforts to turn the discussion back to the original matter. When the second journalist begins listing off Anson’s former extra-curricular activities, John begins to feel a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

“...with your relationship with Dr Watson?” 

_Bloody hell._  

Sherlock momentarily locks eyes with him, then drops his gaze in a manner that suggests that he hasn’t meant to seek him out and hopes no one else will notice this indiscretion. Blinking rapidly, he brings one hand to his temple and stammers through a dull response about the insignificance of the Anson incident, that is completely negated by his posture, pallor and the way his hands are trembling. 

_Oh, Watson,_ John thinks, in a sudden maelstrom of ugly feelings, directed at both the dead radical and himself. _You half-wit._  

The majority of the gaggle still don’t realize John’s there, though a few at the back have since looked around and taken note. Before more can, or one of them says something, John casts a pointed look in Sherlock’s direction, hoping that his flatmate can deduce its meaning from across the crowded room. Then he turns on his heel and exits. 

John winds his way through the familiar hallways of Scotland Yard, until he comes to the next door that he needs.

He could have made his way through the crowd, up to the podium and joined Sherlock that way. But that would take a few moments and generate an uproar. Which John doesn’t mind, but at this particular moment, he wants to do so with one action only. 

Coming in from this way, the journalists can see him. But Sherlock is facing them, not the other door to his right. And the consulting detective grips the podium with his eyes momentarily shut, as if it’s a life-raft and he is about to be sea-sick. His powers of observation fail him and he doesn’t notice John’s approach until the doctor touches him, and he jerkily withdraws his limb in surprise, as if he’s been burned. 

The cacophony momentarily quiets, then swells again. 

John tries a second time. “Take my hand,” he commands, softly... softly, so that Sherlock doesn’t bolt. 

“People will—“ 

“Fine.” John closes the gap between them, slipping warm fingers through his partner’s clammy ones, squeezing gently. “Good, actually.” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Doesn’t move. But doesn’t move away. He stares at John as if he’s never seen him before. Something new. 

John turns back toward the reporters, stonewalling them as he waits patiently for the remaining, quieting thrum of voices to dissipate completely. He gives Sherlock’s right arm a slight tug and nods decisively to the crowd, pausing long enough to ensure it’s obvious that their hands are tightly palm-to-palm; that John’s thumb strokes Sherlock’s reassuringly, before unleashing three calm and clear words: 

“No further questions.”

 

...

  

Now.

“You’re right,” John agrees. “It’s not just about us. Is it?” 

Sally watches Sherlock droop his head slightly, like a puppet with strings cut. He sits against the edge of the table, slumping tiredly so that he’s now the shorter of the two. 

“As for your question,” the doctor says, very gently but very firmly, “about whether I have considered what’s best for our—“ 

Without looking up, Sherlock corrects him sharply, “ _Your_.” 

“ _Our_.” John’s tone is diamond-hard. “Daughter. Then yes, I have, actually. A great deal.” 

The response, after a long pause, is so low, Sally almost doesn’t catch it. “He’d seen the three of us. He said that he would...” He swallows the rest, shaking his head. “You _know_ there can always be more like him and I couldn’t bear it if—“ 

“I know.” The doctor steps forward cautiously, approaching the other as if he is a bird about to take flight. It’s the first time in this exchange that his voice has taken on a fragile tone. “ _Believe_ me, I know. But have you considered the alternatives?” 

His partner doesn’t answer, except with his silence. 

“See?” John smiles weakly at him. “Whatever remains, then.” 

They stay quiet for a span of breaths. But Sherlock’s downcast eyes are scanning; darting from hand to hand as if he’s still trying to puzzle it out. John leans back momentarily with a slight sigh and then steps in all the way, bringing his hands to either side of his friend’s bruised face, tilting it up toward his own. He takes a deep breath. “Of all the things that you and I could live in fear of, Sherlock—“ 

The dark-curled head twists in his grasp, mouth opening in protest— 

But John continues, holding him steady, cutting him off. “—this is _almost_ the worst.” He runs a thumb tenderly along a ridge of cheekbone. “Almost. And that’s precisely _why_ —“ 

And he finishes the statement softly against Sherlock’s hairline, jaw moving with his emphasis, closing his eyes. Sally doesn’t hear it so much as she just knows it; knows what _this_ man would say. 

_—we are NOT going to._  

The sergeant notices her own hand pressing her sternum, covering the sink-hole that eddies beneath. 

She remembers jokes with her mates; a careless use of a particular part of the vernacular that should mean something simply like happiness and, instead, has become synonymous with awkward, embarrassing, or worse. The lesser. It’s a far cry from people like Anson’s rhetoric, but even though there can be no question of which is the greater evil, Sally feels acutely aware of which is the more pervasive. 

Feeling very much to be an unwelcome presence who has eavesdropped quite enough... and expecting that the two will likely remain this way for some time; forehead-to-forehead , not noticing her movement... Donovan slides a silent foot behind her. But John straightens up much sooner than anticipated and takes a small step backwards himself, though leaving his hands lightly on Sherlock’s shoulders. 

“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” he says, at a near-typical level, “but I will tell you this: whatever you decide will make some people talk. And some will stop talking. About us. Some, _to_ us.” He shrugs. “But some...” he tilts his head slightly in Sally’s direction and raises his voice another fraction, “...will listen.” 

Sherlock’s eyes, glued to John’s until now, follow what is obviously a cue from the doctor’s own gaze and he looks over the jumpered shoulder to focus on her. He sniffs once and swipes a quick hand across his eyes, but his deep voice is calmly his own again. “Sergeant.” 

“I just... erm...” Donovan tries to find the voice to explain her presence, then realizes that he has easily deduced it anyway. She clears her throat and tries again. “Front door?” 

He nods, standing. 

“Okay, Sherlock... I can go tell them to...” Her offer of assistance dwindles as the look that flickers briefly across his face reminds her: the name she hasn’t used in more than seven years rings as awkwardly in his ears as it feels on her tongue. 

Then Sherlock quirks a small, but kind, smile at her. “Piss off, Donovan.” 

She chuckles. “You got it, Freak.” 

Sally doesn’t actually try to listen as she walks away, but she hears their next two statements anyway; they now speak at normal volume. 

“It’s still the most dangerous thing I’ve ever seen you do.” Sherlock’s voice is tinged with a fond bemusement. 

And John’s is laughing lightly. 

“Wanna see some more?” 

...

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, I realize: it’s hard to take courage.  
> In a world full of people, you can lose sight of it all.  
> But I see.  
> Don’t be afraid.
> 
> Thank you, Hartswood.


End file.
